I Didn't Need a Glass of Rosé. I Needed My Life to Look Different.

For every woman who's wondering if the life she's built still fits.

It’s been weeks (months!) since I published an article here, and admitting that stirs up some shame and sadness in my chest. I love writing. I love this space. I’ve missed it. And yet, even though it brings me a lot of joy and fulfills an internal creative desire, writing has not been a priority. There are a couple of reasons why.

Both ended up changing my life in ways I never expected.

The easy one first. I decided to take the summer off to be with our kids, and I haven’t wanted to trade trail walks, baking brownies, movie nights, candle making and all the ordinary magic of summer for opening my laptop to write. This is the first summer since my girls were born that I haven’t had full-time care for them, and I have cherished it in a way I didn’t fully expect. Proud (and grateful) mom here.

The other reason I haven’t written? This story surprised me as much as anyone, and inside it, an unfamiliar version of myself started showing up.

Two incidents a few weeks apart made it impossible to keep looking away from something that had already been quietly happening inside me. I’d been craving a change in my work for months, but I couldn’t see the path. Every option I imagined felt irresponsible or flat-out impossible, so instead I kept doing what I’ve always done: I worked hard, showed up, and prayed that clarity would eventually find me.

The first gut-check came during a catch-up call with one of my dearest, oldest friends. I told her how much joy writing had been bringing me. She complimented my articles and then casually mentioned that her mom had read them and was “worried about me.” We laughed, I explained that writing has always been a way for me to process life, and we moved on.

But over the next several weeks I couldn’t stop thinking about that comment. I didn’t think she was right, exactly. But I couldn’t rule out that she wasn’t wrong either.

Then came the second one. Jon and I walked into a party and were greeted almost immediately by someone we know with a freshly poured glass of rosé. She insisted I have one too, even though I’d quit drinking eighteen months earlier, because she’d been reading my Substack and thought I could use it. Ouch.

Her comment, which was meant to be harmless and funny, stuck to me like Velcro. It woke me up in the wee hours of the morning, wondering what people saw when they read my words. Am I coming across as miserable and helpless?

I’ve learned that when something rattles me, there’s usually truth in it worth excavating. After the irritation and embarrassment settled, I realized something surprising. I didn’t need a glass of rosé. I needed my life to look different. Not different like a haircut. Different like a whole new floor plan.

Long before that party, Jon and I had already been talking about the future. I’d been telling him I wanted more margin, more friends, more community, more presence with our family, more overall joy. But as I sat with those desires, another truth slowly emerged, one I could barely say out loud: I didn’t want to keep working the way I had been. At least not now.

That realization felt incredibly strange. I’ve been an achiever and an earner for as long as I can remember. Jon and I met working together — that’s where we fell in love.

Somewhere along the way, earning money got tangled up with being relevant. I don’t think I realized how deeply those roots ran until I started imagining a version of my life where I wasn’t bringing home a paycheck. Honestly, it wasn’t really the money that scared me. (Okay, it was a little bit about the money.) But mostly it was the question hiding underneath it: who am I if I’m not producing?

In early May, while Jon was away on business for a week, I spent an entire day at our kitchen table with my laptop and a screen full of open tabs. With Claude’s help I started running numbers - our income, expenses, the last four years of working / living together, every scenario I could think of. I kept adding more data, trying to make the picture more accurate.

Looking back, I wasn’t really building a case for Jon. I was building one for myself, and I don’t think I fully realized that at the time. If I could prove that the salary he paid me simply circled back into supporting our household, then maybe wanting to step away from work wasn’t impossible.

I talked with friends and my sister before Jon came home. I felt the nervousness of sharing a truth that was hard to admit to myself, much less the man I love and will be marrying in a few months.

I wasn’t sure how he’d respond. He’s one of the most supportive people I know, but being financially dependent has always been deeply uncomfortable for me. Part of me worried he would reject the idea. Part of me worried he would reject me. Underneath all of that was fear: if I wasn’t earning money anymore, would I still be relevant? Would I still matter?

I told him I had a proposal for him and we scheduled time to talk. The next morning we sat down together at the same kitchen table where Claude and I had spent hours conversing just days before.

We paused to pray first, centering our thoughts on God and our connection to each other. Then, with a heart full of love and a stomach full of butterflies, I walked him through my proposal. I didn’t get down on one knee, like he did when he proposed, but I was quite possibly more nervous than he was that night.

I remember feeling mechanical, steady enough to get through the proposal document but almost on autopilot. I think I was doing what I’ve done through a lot of hard seasons over the last several years: taking one faithful step at a time before I actually felt ready.

When I finished, Jon asked thoughtful questions. We talked. We listened to each other. And over the course of that conversation he offered me permission to explore a different life.

That conversation became the beginning of my summer off, and what has now become an indefinite sabbatical.

I wish I could tell you I floated into this new chapter with total peace, assurance and affirmation. I didn’t. After the initial relief that the conversation was over, and excitement for this new chapter, came anxiety. Crushing anxiety.

I’d wake up at 4am many mornings, wondering how we’d make it work, wondering who I’d be without the juggle and struggle of being a working mom. On the worst nights, I’d reconsider the whole thing and start figuring out what job I could do next. Prayer and deep breathing got me back to sleep some nights, but many times, the sleep never came again.

I’ve spent years teaching and learning how to regulate my nervous system, and I’m grateful for that work. But somewhere this spring I realized that being regulated is not the same as being joyful. Sometimes the discomfort we’re feeling isn’t because we need another breathing exercise. Sometimes it’s because the landscape of our lives needs to change.

These last six years have held more change than I ever imagined. Loss. Love. A move. A blended family. A career that has shaped me in beautiful ways. I’ve learned how to stay steady through a lot of chaos. Now I’m learning something different. I’m learning to choose a life that feels truer, instead of just getting better at enduring the one I already had.

I still don’t know exactly what comes next. Will I work again? Will I start a new career? Will I get bored? Will I be a bore?

I continue to have mixed feelings, but with each passing week I notice a little less anxiety and a little more trust. I don’t know exactly who I’m becoming. I only know I couldn’t become her by continuing to live my old life story.

I feel the relief of not having work running in the background while spending time with my kids. I feel the uncertainty of how this new way of life will shape Jon and I’s relationship as we get married this fall. I feel confident that through the mix of emotions, God’s got me and is shaping my next chapter. Maybe that’s what this season is asking of me—not certainty, just enough faith to keep becoming someone I haven’t met yet.